“The facts are the same regarding the kidnapping and murders of each of these boys. What isn’t the same is that in the Donovan case, the father went to prison. I read the transcripts and he had a really bad attorney. The evidence was circumstantial, Donovan initially lied about his alibi, and when he realized that the police thought he had killed his son, he admitted to having an affair. The prosecution was able to discredit his mistress, though she never wavered that he was with her the night Chris was killed. My associate interviewed her and while he was initially skeptical of Donovan’s innocence, he doesn’t think she’s lying.”
“If the case was circumstantial, why hasn’t he appealed?” Andrew asked.
“Guilt that he was in bed with his mistress when his son was murdered,” she said bluntly.
Andrew bristled, but didn’t comment. Max continued. “In the Porter case, the father was also having an affair. He, too, was with his mistress the night his son was killed. That’s three.”
She was watching Lucy carefully, and the fed saw the same pattern she did. But she didn’t flinch. It was simply a subtle change in her posture, a faint leaning forward that told Max she was hanging on every word, processing the information, putting together the patterns.
“And the last victim?” Lucy asked.
“Unconfirmed,” Max said. “The victim’s father and I were in college together—it’s how I became interested in these cases. He denied having an affair. I know him, and in the past I would say he’d never lie about something like this. But when you don’t see someone for ten years, you don’t know how they might have changed.
“His wife? Another story. But there’s a catch. She’s pending trial for her son’s murder. I can’t access the information I need to determine if Peter’s case matches the other three. The autopsy report is only available to law enforcement and the defense right now, and the defense doesn’t want me involved.”
“Why?” Sean asked. “If they think you can help clear their client.” It was a valid question, but the tone was skeptical. Accusatory. Max knew she was winning Lucy over with the facts, but now she wondered if Sean had more sway. Did she have to convince both of them?
“Because the evidence is circumstantial. My gut says that the prosecution has a witness that places Blair Caldwell someplace other than where she said she was during her son’s murder. She and her husband were at a charity golf fund-raiser in their own neighborhood, a gated community. As the crow flies, she could have crossed the golf course in four minutes if she walked briskly—I timed it—and reached her backyard, which is accessible through a gate in a wrought-iron fence. Peter’s body was found in a sand pit on the portion of the golf course farthest from their house. Assuming about five minutes to climb in through the window, grab the kid, climb out with him. It would have taken eight to ten minutes briskly walking—maybe longer carrying a body. Three minutes to suffocate him, and since he was buried in the sand, maybe another minute or two to conceal the body. He could have also been suffocated in his bed and carried already deceased to the sand pit. From the sand pit back to the party at the club would take four to five minutes. That’s roughly twenty-five minutes, thirty tops. And that’s being conservative. I think a determined person could have done it in twenty.”
“Forensic evidence?” Lucy asked.
“I can’t access what they have. I can’t prove that they offered her a plea deal, but my gut says they did and she declined. The defense must know what the prosecution has and they must think it’s weak. Or weak enough that they can play on the emotions of the jury—how can a mother kill her own son? What is the reason? Happy family and all that.”
“Premeditated,” Lucy said quietly.
“Excuse me?” Max said.
“If Blair Caldwell killed her son, it was premeditated. She was at a party in her housing community. She would have known exactly how long it would take to get to her house, kill her son, bury his body, and return to the party. Maybe she had access to a golf cart—which would cut down your timeline quite substantially.”
Max couldn’t speak. She prided herself on thinking of every possible scenario—it’s why she was so good at solving cold cases, because she didn’t think like a cop—but she hadn’t thought about the golf cart. Why was that? Because she thought someone would have seen her? Or someone would have heard her?
Lucy continued. “Did Blair tell you about these similar cases? Maybe in an attempt to throw suspicion off herself?”
“John uncovered them, but he didn’t know all the details. He was going off the gender, age, and circumstances of the kidnapping. Many of the details weren’t in national media reports. Many I got from archives and my own personal research. I’m good at uncovering information.”
Lucy said, “They could be in it together.”
“No.”
“No?” Lucy shook her head. “As you said, ten years is a long time. People change.”
“Full disclosure—I haven’t firmly put Peter Caldwell’s murder in with the other three. There are many similarities and the only difference at this point is I don’t have confirmation as to whether John or Blair were having an affair, though I know for certain that John wasn’t with a mistress while his son was killed. He was never a serious suspect because, according to a reporter friend of mine in Scottsdale, the police were able to account for his whereabouts during the entire window, midnight to two A.M. I also don’t have access to the autopsy report—at least until the trial.”
Max sipped her coffee, waited.
“Is that it?” Lucy asked.
“I need the information from Justin’s murder—the autopsy report, the tox screen report, the investigation notes. I need to talk to the lead detective. Once I gather that information, and the few missing pieces from the Donovan and Porter homicides, I’ll put together a report showing the pattern.”
“And if something doesn’t fit, what do you do?” Sean asked. “Ignore it? Make it disappear?”
Max bristled. “I don’t lie, Mr. Rogan.”
“It seems highly unlikely that a killer would be targeting these boys and waiting years between murders,” he countered.